Thursday, November 15, 2012

I
try to post lighthearted bits of babble on this site, but events of the past
month have made that a bit difficult. There’s no way to gloss over the
destruction that Hurricane Sandy laid waste, to not take a moment to acknowledge
the lives that have been upended, and those that have been tragically taken.

Today,
President Obama is visiting the storm-ravaged New York area. If you live in the
tristate area or know someone in the region, you’re well aware of the personal
horrors and the tragedies that this storm wrought.

There
are countless poignant stories that have been told, and so many shocking photos
detailing the damage. Yet still, there are many areas that remain without
power, areas that are drowning in garbage and building rubble, entire
neighborhoods that are trying to stop from teetering over the edge. Of course, in
certain areas, like Breezy Point, the road ahead is that much harder.

I
know these are generalities, and that vague descriptions of a disaster are much
less tantalizing than raw photographs or haunting images of decimated communities.
But that’s by design. Those photos are out there and easy to find; what I want
to talk about is the importance of community.

I’m
hardly the poster child for this subject—at least I didn’t used to be. I’ve
lived in New York City for years and for whatever reason, quirky DNA perhaps,
the anonymity suited me perfectly. I found solitude in detachment, a certain
peace in not having to deal with neighbors.

After
I got married, we started renting a place in Long Beach for the summers. For
four years we did this, coming back to the same house, the one with the same terrific
neighbors, on a street where we saw familiar faces year after year.

If
you’ve never been, Long Beach is one of those places where everybody knows
everyone else on the block. It’s like Cheers, but beach side and with bungalows.
It’s tight-knit, the kind of place where you can’t walk out of your house
without striking up conversations with everyone else who’s outside—and in the
summer, everybody lives outside. Long
Beach still has block parties, a veritable throwback to a time that seems, in
many ways, easier and more innocent. This is the place that seeped into our
bones, the no-frills seaside spot that became a part of our lives.

Our
adopted Long Beach block was flooded by angry waves that ate away the
formidable beach dune. Water surged into the street and into homes. It overtook
everything: wooden supports, plaster pilings, couches and TVs, snapshots of
moments long gone. Cars were tossed around like boats that had come unmoored.
Chaos was left in the storm’s wake.

There
are some who have been displaced from their homes, who are eager to get back to
the block, to reconnect with their home and community. There are others who
have worked tirelessly for weeks to scour away the hurricane’s lashing, trying
to right-side their world and return to a sense of normalcy. It’s going to take
a lot to finish this job. There much left to be done. Communities, no matter
how strong, still need help, and like many others
that were in Sandy’s path, Long Beach still has great needs.